THE MORNING AFTER
It was with a feeling of intense relief that I left Mr. Rogers and returned to the Waldorf. At last I knew where I "was at": I was to play a lone hand; my enemies were in front; there were no partners from whose treacherous knife-blades I should have to protect my back. The path was clear, and as I examined my position, I felt my old self again. Promptly I called up my Boston brokers, who were at the Holland House, to say I would drop in for them on my way downtown, and with a clear plan of campaign in my mind, I determined to face the breakfasting crowd in the big café downstairs.
Almost immediately I found myself in the centre of a knot of men who began eagerly to press me for further particulars of the Amalgamated subscriptions. We all know the story of the comedian informed in the midst of a performance of his beloved wife's death, who yet must laugh and antic to the end of the play. I appreciated the heavy-hearted actor's plight as I surveyed the little throng so vitally interested in their dollar affairs. I longed to mount a chair and tell them how they had been duped, but my rôle called for different lines. It was my part to feign satisfaction and my duty to keep every cent invested in our enterprise from shrinking a mill. I pumped as much enthusiasm into my speech as possible.
"You see what the papers say," I said. "That gives you all the information I have, for although you may not think it, I have been spending the night just as the rest of you have—in lands where all flotations sell away over par. I'm going down to Wall Street just now. After a while I'll have more to tell you."